Otared

by Mohammad Rabie

  As I was carried through the Barqiya Gate, the clamor faded from my ears and the pressing weight upon my chest was gone.

  For some moments, I stood beneath the arch of the Barqiya Gate and studied the scene to my left, where the crowd did cry aloud and wail, raising their arms in what I thought supplication. And the people were pressing in on either side of the gate, powerless to do otherwise, perishing beneath the great crush and the weight of terror. Then I turned to my right and there in the distance I spied Muqattam and the people who had escaped the grip of the crowd making their way there in great haste, caring nothing for those who fell to the ground and trampling them as though they were dust. And I knew that thousands had died this day and that thousands more would die, and that I would live to see and to know, and I knew that death was better than knowledge.

  I came to where Sakhr’s body lay. He was laid out on a stone platform, a mighty outcrop of Muqattam rock rising four or five arm-lengths above our heads, and they had covered him in thick white cloth. And as the air swirled about him, stirred by an angry wind, they carefully secured the edge of the cloth beneath the body.

  The people left a great empty arc about the body, as though they feared to approach it, and at the edge of this arc stood his uncles, his father’s siblings and his mother’s. I arrived after they had agreed to wash the corpse together, and I heard from those around me that a great many had fallen dead while the uncles had been in dispute, and that fear had stricken all those who claimed the courage and strength required to lift his weight—that those who approached the platform had fallen straightway upon the ground, and that those who were wont to offer their services as corpse-washers had been unable to lay a finger on the body. Then I heard that his uncles, who had arrived before me, had spent much time quarreling over which half of the family should wash him, each group insisting that it was the most deserving, and after much debate they had agreed that the father’s family should wash his left-hand side and his mother’s siblings the right.

  Then the wind picked up, bearing a yellow dust behind which the half-set sun vanished utterly, and the people began to cry out, “Lord!” pleading to be saved.

  And I moved forward, brushing every shoulder in my way and grasping every arm, all those I passed either touching my shoulder, or gripping it, or slapping my back, until I came to the empty arc about Sakhr’s body, and I saw him, raised up on the platform, the body right before my eyes, and I saw those who stood around him.

  And I stared at the crowd who stood on the other side of the arc and I saw that the people’s shadows had vanished. The sun was behind them, starting to set and hidden behind a veil of dust suspended in the air, and I prayed God it might set quickly.

  Sakhr’s father’s brothers gathered themselves and advanced upon the corpse, followed by his mother’s kin, and they all vanished behind the veil of dust, and one man cried, “Wash him now! The dust hides his unclean parts!” and everyone raised their eyes toward the corpse and the corpse-washers, and we saw their shadowed forms lifting the cloth from him, and his recumbent body lay naked before us, surrendered to death, and the people began to fall down dead.

  And we saw one of the washers draw back in trepidation, in fear of the body that but a short while before he had approached and made ready to wash, and we saw him fall down in an excess of fright, and then he began to crawl and creep like an infant and he disappeared into the midst of the crowd. And we saw those who remained resting their hands against the platform in search of support, and the sound of weeping was on every side, louder than every other sound. Then the uncles gathered themselves, and the first of them touched Sakhr’s body and the rest took heart.

  And we saw one of them take Sakhr’s right arm to lay it out from his side, and we heard the cracking of his joints, and every person in that crowd began to strike his face, weeping and crying out, and some ran through the ranks of people, colliding with everyone in their path.

  And now a new fear seemed to have taken hold of the people, an unexpected blow, for I heard their screams behind me, the distant screams of men in torment, and then the screams grew louder, and one of those who screamed approached until he was standing almost at my back, yet not one of those around me turned. We all stared forward at Sakhr’s body. We were all afraid to turn.

  And I knew that I had lost the power of speech, and I turned to the man who stood next to me and tried to ask him, “What art thou?” but I could utter only sounds without meaning, and I took to bellowing like a man whose tongue had been cut out, and I struck at my face with my fists.

  And in place of men stood fear.

  The washers hurried, each man finishing his work in haste, then standing there waiting for Sakhr’s coffin and the litter that would bear him. I could no longer see anything save a mass of yellow-black about the body, and then the dust cleared and settled on the ground, leaving fine motes suspended in the air, and the figures around the corpse showed plain, and their shadows fled away, but the shadow of the platform remained, its darkness a stain upon the earth.

  And we saw them drawing back from the body, some retreating and running in fear, one falling motionless, and the remainder rooted to the spot as though they had died on their feet.

  *

  I came to the foot of Muqattam and heard the crowd reciting the two shahadas, the recitation given to the dead man who awaits the Angel of Death, as though imploring the angel to deliver them from a grievous torment.

  And as this went on, the screaming gradually stilled and I looked to their faces and found that every man had laid his dagger or sword aside, and had ceased to beat his face with stone and fist, and had turned as one toward the body laid out on the platform over the people’s heads.

  And I looked to where the people were looking, and I raised my face, and I clung to the shoulder of the man who stood before me.

  Sakhr al-Khazarji was sitting on the rock, feet hanging down and not touching the ground, leaning his arms against the platform’s edge, his head bowed down to his chest, which rose and fell with great breaths. And water soaked him and flowed down over his body, and then I understood that this was not the water in which he had been washed, but his sweat, streaming from his skin to coat him and dripping down from his toes.

  The people around me muttered, every one of them in a daze, “Sakhr is risen.”

  After a march of many hours, I came at last to the foot of Muqattam, where I found the people standing and not speaking, and silence hanging over the place.

  And I saw Sakhr sitting on a raised platform. Had he not died? Had we not gathered here to wash him and place him in a casket? And one of those standing by told me, “He has this instant risen.”

  And at first I did not understand what was happening, for how could someone, even Sakhr, be risen again after he had died? A life after death? And what of all those beneath the dust who had not risen this day? A strange day indeed. Had the Hour come with no signs to proclaim it?

  And I bethought myself that these were drunkards, that this could not be the Sakhr who had died, or else that he had not died and the drunkards had just thought him dead. And I resolved to return from whence I had come.

  And a voice in the crowd cried, “I die!” and sprawled out on the ground, and his companions read the shahada over him and he repeated it after them, the agonies of death writ upon his face, until he ceased reciting and his eyes widened in fear, and he stayed thus, trembling and turning his face from one companion to another, and death did not come. Then he cried out, “Lord, take me!” and repeated his cry, trembling all the while, his breath quickening, until we said that surely he was being taken, but his breathing only quickened and quickened as he continued to plead, so that one of our number cried out, “Die!” and beat at his temples. Drunk on fear, these men, pleading for death and death not coming, and I could not understand how a man might plead for death and death not come to him, when just moments before people had been dropping dead on every side.

  And I knew that we were
in hell.

  Then Sakhr arose. He stood on the rock and gazed down at us, and his shadow stretched out before him, nor was his face visible, though the sun was setting at our backs and illuminated him, and we saw his eyes roaming around, searching for something in the crowd, and we saw his right arm raised above his head, held out as though he wished to cover the people with its shadow.

  The people were stricken and they did not speak, and he who spoke could not be understood. The resurrection had blotted out their wits.

  My wits are sound: the corpse did move his head—an illusion, yet he nodded and was dead.

  *

  We were standing like men in a stupor when Sakhr al-Khazarji spoke.

  He said, “You were not, nor did you live. You are the sons of guile. You lived in hope, and hope there is none.”

  Then said Sakhr, atremble, “What were you? How did you live? You are my first-born sons. You are they who ruined all, and hoped, and hope there is none.” Then he fell silent for a long while, and we betook ourselves to examine what he had said, and one of our number wept as women weep and mumbled through the groans and tears: “He rebukes us, for we brought ruin to the earth, clinging to the hope of God’s pardon, and yet there is no hope of Him pardoning our crimes.” Then another spoke and said, “He measures us by our first-born sons, as though, like him, we had never brought sons into the world at all.” And the people began to argue back and forth, each claiming that he had heard him speak thus, and that his meaning thereby was this. . . .

  And in the sudden silence that drowned all things, I saw Sakhr’s voice entering my breast. I was near to him, and I raised my face to him and found that his lips were fixed and did not move, and that his face was unbending as stone; yet his voice reached me as clearly as though it were I who spoke. He said, “What are you? What were you? You are the first-born sons. You are they who suffered in hope, and hope there is none.” And I thought upon his words and saw that I was nothing, that I had lived and lived not, that I had been and knew not how I had been, that I was my father’s first-born son, and that I had suffered much, that not a day had passed without suffering, that I had always believed that there was hope for a better life—a happy day, just one hour of joy from a whole life—and should it not come, then there was another life for the patient. God’s promise. Yet in that instant, as Sakhr denied the existence of any hope, I beheld the true promise, and I knew that we were in hell.

  *

  Then Sakhr lifted up his arms, and shook his fists in the air, and cried out to the people, saying, “I am not as you supposed,” and the people pleaded for death and in that moment death abandoned them, and on every side the prayer rose up, “Lord, take me.”

  Sakhr’s cry rent the air, “I am not as you supposed,” and those who stood there longed for death and each one said, “Lord, take me.” Then a cry rose from the crowd, “I am giving birth!” and we said that it was a woman crying out in the manner of a man, and I approached the one who screamed and the people did likewise, pushing and shoving, as eager as I to see. I came to where a few men stood gathered together, staring down at their feet, and on the ground between them I saw a man, sprawled out with his unclean parts exposed—and, emerging from his anus, a pup, still and lifeless, and the people shouted words that made no sense. Then one pointed to the creature and cried, “Dog!” and he repeated the word twice or thrice again, and I looked to where it lay and saw that it was like any male newborn, a son of Adam, and I asked myself, “What is wrong with this man who calls it a dog? There it is, a newborn child before our eyes, and nothing to wonder at.” Then the man began to howl, “A dog! It is a dog!” and we saw that he had lost the power of speech, and he continued to howl, not knowing what had happened to him, and the people about him said, “God be praised!” Then some of them turned to howling, and their numbers grew until all were howling like dogs—like dogs, they howled, “God be praised!” not realizing what had happened to them, and then I bethought me that maybe I had lost the power of speech like them, and I resolved to test my tongue, and I spoke and heard my voice uttering the speech of men, yet I knew I howled like them, and knew that I heard it not.

  *

  The people were asking for death, saying, “Lord, take me,” or “Lord, kill me,” or “Lord, claim me,” and then their prayers became a single phrase and all together, in great wretchedness, they chanted, “Lord, take me! Lord, take me!”

  Then Sakhr said, “Silence! There shall be no death this hour, but only eternity.” He was naked, his body trembling as though wracked with fever, and I heard him say, “You are dead. We are all dead,” and I recalled hearing something like these words before, its meaning clearer. Then one of those standing there asked him, “How is it that we are dead when we are here, standing before you?” and Sakhr replied, “We stand in hell,” and the cries of the people rose up, and the dispute between them grew, and their voices became louder and much was said, and the men trembled and shook. And we said that the day had gone on for many hours and wondered when night would come—as though night could deliver us.

  Then Sakhr cried, “There shall be no deliverance this day! We are in hell!”

  I awoke from my swoon and leaned myself against the bodies of those around me. I stood without the strength to stand, and I saw Sakhr—dead but a short while ago—alive, and the people all about me wept and hid their eyes and faces as though they had not the courage to behold him. Then Sakhr cried, “The Hour has been and gone, the people have been set in the balance, and we remain here. This is the hell of the evildoers!” And he was silent, and we said to ourselves, “If only he had stayed dead.”

  And I knew that I was here forevermore.

  Then Sakhr pointed to the dead before him and said, “Arise!” and all those laid out upon the ground rose up as though they had never fallen, and I saw those fallen in a swoon awaken, and the dead brought back to life—and some had cut their throats and I saw them standing, not bleeding, their throats open to the wind and their speech a bubbling, and Sakhr said unto all:

  “You have died, and been judged, and fallen here, into hell. Where you shall be tomorrow, I know not; another hell, or paradise.”

  Then he said:

  “The world ended an age hence. The Hour came. The people rose again.”

  Then he said:

  “He who lives today is in hell or heaven, forevermore or for a time—and hope there is none. Your only hope is patience.”

  And the people, affrighted, cried out and wept until their breasts were wetted.

  Sakhr was silent, and we told ourselves that he had said his piece, and his eye wandered over our heads, aimlessly roving over the crowd.

  Then Sakhr’s shadow stretched out over the people, a great shadow fallen toward the setting sun—as though the sun were setting before us, not behind us—and not one of us took note of Sakhr’s inverted shadow, for the horror we saw and heard was greater than any shadow.

  Then the shadow moved, turning slowly over the crowd as though it were a ray of darkness whose source was Sakhr, and we heard sighs of relief from the mouths of those who stood there as the shadow passed over their heads. The shadow passed over the people and they were taken in a rapture. Then it passed on, and each man sat down on the ground, his head bowed, and mumbling.

  And I saw the shadow approach the place where I stood.

  The shadow engulfed me and I saw the blackness.

  There was no light about me, no glint, nothing save the dark, and I remembered a saying that made play of darkness and the dark of heart, and I knew that I was an evildoer and that this day I would see those I had wronged and how I had wronged them.

  The shadow claimed me for mere moments, but my former life passed before me in a flash, and I saw that I had been a tyrant in the world of men, and that those I had killed unjustly were reckoned up and they exceeded a thousand thousand souls, and that my prayers and fasting were not placed in the reckoning, as though they had never been, and I knew that I was in the fire fo
revermore.

  And I saw that I had killed a woman in the world of men—and then I saw her approaching me, and standing before me, and striking me with a length of iron until I fell down dead, and I tried to remember who she was but I could not. Then I saw myself in another body, speaking another tongue, and I saw her striking me with a length of iron until she slew me. Then I saw myself in a third body, and a fourth, and a fifth, and in each I saw her striking me until I fell down dead, and I knew that I was in the fire forevermore.

  And I saw that I had lived eight lives in hell, moving from torment to torment, and never knowing that I was in torment, and I knew that I was in the fire forevermore.

  And I saw that I had been entrusted with vast territories and had been at the center of great affairs, and I saw that I had killed not because I was unjust or just but because I had left every man to do what he would. And I saw that I had been complacent. I had chosen idleness, and flown from duty, and abandoned the storehouses to thieves. I saw that a man had been born in my time to a mother full of fear, and that as he grew, he, too, came into fear, and when he died, died fearful. And I saw that I had lived numberless lives in hell, and I saw that I was tormented with fear, living in fear of all things, and I knew that I was in the fire forevermore.

  And I knew that I had been a judge in the world of men, and I knew that I had lived two thousand lives in hell, in which I had been a length of firewood by which men warmed themselves, then ashes, then risen again as firewood by which men warmed themselves once more. And I knew that the torment had changed and that I had become a hearth on which men lit their fires.

  And I knew that I was in the fire forevermore.

  And the shadow had almost disappeared from atop my head when I heard the screams of Amer al-Jowhari, whom I had murdered in the world of men, screaming as he had done the day I killed him, the very screams I hear here every day, and I knew that I was in the fire forevermore.